Flicker
by AnimationGirl
Summary: Grif refusing to eat had always been an unnerving phenomenon, and it was becoming more and more difficult to pretend that this was the new normal. (Alternative ending to season 8)


A/N: I do not own Red vs. Blue

Alternative ending to season 8.

I forgot to post it here when I posted it on AO3 so this is some weeks old now. Sorry.

 **Flicker**

The body armors had been one of the hardest things to get used to. The weight of the rifle had become a daily part of his life after some weeks – it was Grif who complained about the heaviness of the weapons even years after they'd received their first rifle. Not that his comrade's complaints meant much since Grif would be frustrated with the weight of a pistol.

To be honest it was not exactly the entire armor that had troubled Simmons in the beginning. It was the helmets. The visors that hid their faces, leaving a gold-tinted, blank expression in their place.

They only took them off inside the base when Sarge finally declared it was safe, after almost half an hour of staring intensely at the blue base in the distance. Simmons had soon learned that Grif did not care much about whether he could see his teammates' faces or not. He did appreciate how the lack of helmet allowed him to eat, but his expression remained as neutral as possible even when he could show his face. The rare emotions his facial features would reveal were boredom and annoyance.

It was understandable, in some way. Exciting things rarely happened inside the base.

It was outside, when they were all wearing their full-body armor, that hell would break loose.

Simmons turned his head to stare right into Grif's visor. It was like a mirror, he realized as he saw his own blurred reflection in the golden plastic. His cyborg eye glowed with a dull green light.

He chewed his lip as he understood that his own face was the closest thing he would get to an expression whenever he glanced at Grif.

"Dude, I don't care if there are grease marks – you are _not_ polishing my helmet." The visor moved as Grif turned his head to glare back when he felt the intense stare from Simmons.

The cyborg pulled back when he realized he had been caught in the act. "I'm surprised you can see anything with that visor. Have you ever cleaned it? Or at least just try to wipe it?"

"No need to. With a screen this big, I can't miss anything."

Grif leaned back to try and find a comfortable against the wall, and Simmons felt very cold in his nightwear.

* * *

"Again? Really?"

"Well, we only have two DVDs and they're both _Star Wars_. Not even in the right order."

"How barbaric," Grif muttered and tilted his helmet downwards in disdain as he glanced at the discs. "Too bad Lopez is gone."

"Yeah." Simmons recalled the Netflix nights at Red Base, when Donut had managed to convince Lopez to show off his robot tech, and when Simmons had been tasked with keeping Grif away from the snacks until the movie actually started. The cold knot inside Simmons' advanced polymer gut seemed to grow.

They chose a movie, and the _Star Wars_ theme played as the opening scene was projected on the wall of the other end of the room. The screen was so big they might as well have been in a movie theater.

"We should make it a drinking game," Grif suggested. "Drink every time Simmons can't resist being a nerd when he finishes the characters' lines before they do."

Simmons snorted. "Like that'd be fun for you."

"It's about time you get your sorry ass wasted. Might improve the mood a little. Or you could stop being a nerd for two whole hours."

"Hey, I just heard you hum along with the theme song. Which makes you a nerd too."

Grif's visor was set on him. "At least I sounded better than you."

Simmons' thin laughter bounced against the metal walls, the sound of it echoing throughout the enormous room.

* * *

"Seriously, how are you not in trouble yet?" Grif asked him one day. "If I were five minutes late for training, I would be plucking shotgun shells out from my back later. You haven't been a part of Sarge's stupid missions for like, what, a week now?"

"He hasn't mentioned it yet." The cyborg shrugged and tried to keep his eyes on the screen. Last time they rewatched the movie, they had begun an argument whether the Stormtroopers' aiming skills were better than Grif's. Simmons had laughed a couple of times

"I know you're bound to be his favorite by now, but you're gotta be pushing your luck. Not that I care: I'm not the one he's going to be yelling at. Is he still launching attacks on Blue Base?"

Simmons did not know where else Sarge would have disappeared to whenever the cyborg could not find him in the base, so he answered, "Yeah. But I think they've stopped shooting back."

"Probably feeling sorry for the one-man army."

"That's not funny," Simmons hissed and Grif fell quiet after that. Half an hour later, when the movie ended and left them in silence, he wished he could have just faked a laugh.

* * *

"You better be enjoying those," Grif muttered sourly as Simmons ripped open another package. He only used his right hand to pick up the cookies since he hated whenever crumbs got stuck in the joints of his cyborg fingers.

He could feel the jealous glance through the visor. "I'm pretty sure these are two years old. I'm not even sure what they're supposed to taste like."

"Your tongue is weak. You're not worthy of them."

"Oh, I'm sure I'll be punished later with the stomach-ache I'll be having." For some reason he could not stop placing the Oreos on his tongue. They felt kind of mushy. It was disgusting, actually, but in the last couple of weeks, Simmons had forced his fake stomach to get used to junkfood they used for movie nights.

It made his stomach feel heavy and cold, like a tight knot, but Simmons was not sure how much of that he could blame the food.

"Weak," Grif repeated, and it sounded like he was clicking his tongue.

The golden visor stayed focused on the screen during the rest of the movie as Grif made sure not to give the snacks a second glance.

Simmons bit down harder on the softened cookie. Grif refusing to eat had always been an unnerving phenomenon, and it was becoming more and more difficult to pretend that this was the new normal.

* * *

"You know you have a bed, right?"

Simmons had been dozing off but Grif's voice forced him to jerk awake. "Wha-?" he asked, rubbing his face. He could _feel_ the bags under his eyes.

"Upstairs. A bed. Like, with pillows and blankets and a soft mattress instead of the floor. A fucking bed. Heaven on earth. You must have heard of it."

"Well, we're down here most of the time anyway," Simmons defended himself and as the words left his lips, he realized it had to be the worst excuse ever. But half of his brain was still off-line so it was not without reason.

"No shit. You only leave to take a piss. Which happens disturbingly few times a day. Does your cyborg bladder only work every 24 hours, or are you just worrying about the bathroom hygiene again?"

Simmons ignored the question and instead put a lot a work into readjusting the pillow. He had brought it down here a week ago when he had decided to stop spending his nights staring at the ceiling in his own room and instead manage to get some hour-long naps with the movie running in the background.

He put down his head and stared right back into Grif's golden visor until his eyelids finally grew too heavy.

* * *

"Dude, you kinda owe them."

"I'm not sure I'm the best person for this, Tucker."

"Trust me, you aren't. But you're the only one here with any psychologist experience – not saying you actually followed their advice – so I guess that makes you the most qualified."

"Nah, I met a one once. She was a nice lady. She said I was the special person in her life."

"I'm pretty sure she meant the most _special_ person she's met in her life, Caboose."

"Is there a difference?"

"Wash, if you're not gonna help with him, Sarge will have to, and how do you think that will go?"

"I don't know Sarge that well."

"Just give me your first impression."

"Hatred for Blues and a slight pinch of insanity?"

"Pretty accurate. Now imagine that being squished into a conversation about grief?"

"Oh."

"Yep. Come on, dude, you can at least try to help him."

"I can't just step in and fix it, Tucker. No one can, and especially not me. Are you even sure he'd want to see me face?"

"You'd be wearing a helmet anyway."

"That's not my point, Tucker."

"Exactly. The point is that it used to be Blue Team versus Red Team, and now it is Blue Team versus Sarge. And you can't say you haven't played a role in that."

"I… I did apologize to Sarge."

"And how well did that go?"

"I tried, Tucker. And… What happened to Grif was not my fault."

"So you didn't shoot him."

"Tucker-"

"Doesn't mean you can't try to help him."

"…Okay. What do you want me to do?"

* * *

"Hey, we have a visitor."

Simmons straightened out his back at the sound of Grif's words. A feeling of wariness hit the cyborg since Sarge had not set a foot down here since Sidewinder.

When the armor turned out to be aqua instead of red, Simmons reached for his rifle only to remember he had left it by the bunch of armor plates that he had not touched in weeks. "What the fuck are you doing here?!"

But Tucker was looking at Grif instead of Simmons. "Fuck, this is creepy."

"Watch it." Grif flipped him the finger.

It took a couple of seconds before Tucker finally tore his glance away to stare at Simmons. "Dude, chill, I'm here to help."

"Okay." Simmons thought about that for a second. "Can you fuck off now?"

"I hate to interrupt the sleepover, but…" He put a bunch of papers in Simmons' hands. "Here. They had some grief counseling sessions when Wash was trained. Probably not the most effective ones, you know, considering, well… He remembered some of the stuff they were told, and we thought it might help."

Simmons glared at papers that were stapled in the corner, and he used his metal thumb to flick through them in order not to his finger on the edge. They were handwritten notes, and the parts he took the time to read were stupid. Definitely. He would show them to Grif when Tucker left to hear him agree on the fact that the notes were stupid.

"Caboose and I added some parts as well. After losing Church twice he's kinda an expert in crippling depression. I mean, he's dealing with loss better than you."

Simmons tried not to flinch. "Great. I get it. Caboose is better than you, loser, feel bad about yourself."

"That's adding a lot of words I never said." Tucker held up his hands. "Look, you like movie nights, you can come to Blue Base. Caboose would love it. We have _Reservoir Dogs – Remastered_."

"The original was even shittier!" Grif called from the ground.

Tucker looked like he was about to reply but then regretted the motion and took a step back. "I'm just saying, there's got to be a better coping method than _this_."

"I'm going to say bad things about you behind your back!" Grif promised and Simmons knew he would fulfill that promise later.

Simmons tightened his fist, causing the papers to crumble slightly. " _Thanks_. Now please leave."

Tucker sighed, shoulders falling forward, before heading up the stairs. He stopped midway, calling out, "By the way, Sarge said you guys are using too much power. You're gonna run out soon."

Even after Tucker had disappeared and Grif had muttered, "Asshole", Simmons stayed silent as he thought about just how strange it was that Sarge had let a Blue into their base.

* * *

 _Talk about it with a friend. (getting wasted a good way of opening up and if youre willing to share the bottles i can listen to bawling)_

"Bullshit."

 _Resume your life but leave time for grieving. (daily round of catch the flag from 10am until Sarge gives up)_

"This is… Grif, have you even read this bullshit?"

 _bilt your frend a robot bodi to stay in when he comes back. make it roomi._

Grif leaned over his shoulder. "I mean, you kinda did follow Caboose' advice. That isn't exactly praising your sanity, buddy."

"Since when are you complaining?" Simmons asked, throwing the guide away from their blanket-filled spot on the floor.

Grif laid down on one of blankets, the orange one Simmons had stolen from Grif's bed, and he folded his arms behind his head to rest against them. "I'm not. I love your insanity. Looks good on you."

Simmons settled down next to him but found himself unable to turn his eyes away from the papers spread in the corner. "It's bullshit, right?"

"Whatever, Simmons."

* * *

When the movie began to glitch Simmons blamed it on the endless number of times they had played it by now.

"Maybe we should give it a rest."

"And do what? Stare at the empty wall? I know you're boring, Simmons, but not _that_ boring."

Then the lights began to flicker along with the movie.

Simmons kept his eyes shut to keep himself from staring at Grif and he first opened them when he was told the power was running smoothly again.

* * *

The floor was littered with empty packages and chips bags, and at some point Simmons could not ignore it anymore.

Grif smacked his lips behind the visor when the cyborg began to pick up the trash. "And here I thought I had finally managed to influence you. Junkfood, no work, random naps… And you finally let me down."

"I'm not letting you turn this place into a pigsty," Simmons muttered with his arms full of the remains from his own sad excuses for a meal.

" _Myself_ ," Grif corrected him. " _I'm not letting myself turn this place into a pigsty._ This is your mess, Simmons. Don't go blaming me – I'm the innocent one in this case."

The cyborg stumbled upon the grieving guide when he mistook it for a snack cake package. By accident, he flipped to the last page when he picked it up.

 _I'm sorry. –Wash_

Simmons stared at the page until Grif called from behind if he was looking for crumbs to eat. Then he crumbled all the papers into a ball and threw it out with the rest of the trash.

It was bullshit, after all. Simmons was not the guy Wash should be apologizing to.

* * *

Simmons woke up from a nightmare about snow and a white armored soldier and a falling jeep and orange disappearing from the edge and engulfing waves. His hands felt very empty as he opened his eyes.

"You mumble in your sleep," Grif informed him when he sat up to run a hand through his sweaty hair. "No wonder I'm awake."

Technically Grif had been awake for weeks now and that was just as wrong as him not eating for just as long.

Simmons eyes were still burning when he finally dared to say the question out loud. "Do you know?" he asked quietly. His voice broke slightly in the end, even when he tried to keep it steady.

Grif shrugged, looking as careless as ever. "Does it matter?"

"Don't you care?"

"Do you?" Grif replied back. His voice wasn't sharp, thankfully, but was filled with genuine curiosity that caused Simmons' stomach to turn into a knot. "It hasn't seemed like you do."

Simmons wished he could deny that.

But it was the truth.

He ran a hand through his hair again, trying to treat it like a casual subject. But he never had Grif's calm when it came to such things. "I just wondered."

"There are other things to keep you up at night," Grif replied stiffly. "Nightmares, apparently."

Simmons stared at Grif's visor until he came to the horrifying realization that he was beginning to forget the face underneath. Even in his nightmares the face avoided him – it was always just the last sight of the orange helmet before it too disappeared over the edge.

As he tried his best to remember, memories the memories began to return. They were flickering slightly, like the movie in the wall. Grif stuffing his face with Oreos, breaking his record before grinning madly at Simmons. Grif flipping Simmons the finger before pulling the cyborg down in the bed with him, despite being told it was time to get up. Grif alive and well and _real_.

"I, uh…" Simmons stuttered and tried to swallow the lump in his throat. "I think I care."

Grif froze, tensing up for a moment. "Well, that sucks." He turned his head to focus on the movie instead of Simmons before adding, "For me, at least."

Simmons swallowed again.

The projections flickered for the third time that day – power running low, Simmons knew that by now.

The orange armored soldier disappeared and appeared with a few seconds in between, his shape blurry as the projector struggled to stay alive, and Simmons fled from the room.

* * *

He returned a day later, wringing his hands as he journeyed down the stairs. Grif was still on their spot on the floor, flickering every few a seconds. The lights were duller now.

Simmons returned with news – it had been quite informative to leave the room for once. Apparently life went on above ground. How shocking. It had been even more shocking to find out that Sarge had been standing just outside the elevator, about to head in to "rescue" Simmons as he called it.

"The others are leaving," Simmons told him quietly.

"And the power is running low," Grif concluded, gesturing to his own fading body. "Figured," he added bitterly.

Simmons did not walk further into the room, but instead rested his back against the wall. "They've made a small memorial for him outside. I didn't know." He had tried to make peace with the fact that there would be no grave, no tombstone and no peace before locking himself up here. He had kept dreaming of waves.

"If they planted fucking flowers, I'm gonna be pissed. I want a stature – big one with the word _FUCKING HERO_ on it. And a package of Oreos against the stone. Then I'll have my peace."

Simmons wanted to comment on that but he had no words.

The projection was gone for three whole seconds before appearing again. "Simmons, chill. I get it. You don't want to be alone. You've been making that _very_ obvious. Kinda pathetic. 'cause it's you."

"Wow, thanks."

"Oh, don't be pissy. I meant _this_ – _this_ have been just a little bit pathetic. I've just been enjoying the company. The movies got boring after a while."

"Yeah," Simmons sighed and rubbed his human eye with a fist. "They did."

"Are you fucking crying?"

"No."

Grif crossed his arms, nodding his helmet in an amused manner. "You could have warned me about the touchy feeling shit."

"Sorry."

The hologram sighed loudly. He waited for Simmons to regain his composure before making the deal clear. "I'll be leaving, you know. Again. So you go with them 'cause they have got to be missing you by now. You've been staying in your nerd room for a bit too long."

"Technically, it's Sarge's nerd room."

"Well, you're the one who literally moved down here. _Nerd_."

Simmons smiled weakly as he fiddled with his thumbs. "I… I know I said that I did care about, well, who's who, and I _do_ , but… _Thanks_. For hanging out."

"Shit, you sound like the bullied kid in high school. Man up a little. Don't let Sarge boss you around."

"I don't think I can keep that promise." The hologram flickered out of existence again, and Simmons bit his lip as his throat continued to burn. "But I can try. I guess."

"Just flick the switch, Simmons."

"It's not that easy."

"Dude, I died a long time ago. It _is_."

Simmons' hand hovered above the control panel. It felt like putting a pet down after a long peaceful life, knowing the power was already running out. He thought of the small memorial and the constant flickering and Grif's face smiling in the sunlight, and he realized he made the choice days ago.

Holding back sob, he reached out. "Bye, Grif."

The hologram saluted him, like the way Grif used to in an ironic manner whenever Sarge gave him an order he truly disliked. "Talking to the wrong man." He let his hand fall. "But bye, Simmons."

He flickered one last time before Simmons pushed the button.

The lights in the ceiling died out as Simmons left the simulation room with heavy steps.

* * *

A/N: Unnecessary angst for everyone! This was actually the first piece I've ever written for RvB – I began writing before I even had an AO3 account. I just finished season 8, saw that cliffhanger and thought of the simulation room. When I found the deleted scene where Grif makes an accurate version of himself, so alike he can't tell the difference, the plot was made.

Yeah, so back then I didn't realize Donut was alive and they didn't return to Valhalla just after season 8 (just where did they stay until they decided to rescue Epsilon? I can't remember), and I first remembered this when I was ¾ finished with this thing. But, well, Grif didn't die either, so fuck it, and let's call this a dark au where Ria can get out some angsty stuff and get over her writer's block. Forgive me and my tired brain – it's been one bad day and I just decided to finish this piece in one go and I feel like the core of the story remains the same even if I tried to rewrite it. Please just roll with it.

Thank you, exam stress, a bad day and the soundtrack from "The Last of Us" to keep up the angsty mood.

So uh… *wrings hands* I have mentioned I write one-shots to avoid writer's block, right? Like, with this piece I've saved all my other stories. This piece was kinda an experiment I wanted to complete.

Also, next one-shot is super fluffy and there's no death and all is well and you'll love it! Look forward to "Just the Basic".

At least I beat the writer's block.


End file.
